Former U.S. Marshal Simon Fisk now works as a private contractor, tracking down and recovering children who were kidnapped by their own estranged parents. He only has one rule: he won't touch stranger abduction cases. He's still haunted by the disappearance of his own daughter years ago when she was just a child, still unsolved, and stranger kidnappings hit too close to home.
Until, that is, six-year-old Lindsay Sorkin disappears from her parents' hotel room in Paris, and the French police deliver Simon an ultimatum: he can spend years in a French jail for his actions during a past case, or he can work with them now to find Lindsay Sorkin. So, Simon sets out in pursuit of the missing child and the truth behind her disappearance. But Lindsay's captors did not leave an easy trail, and following it will take Simon across the continent, through the ritziest nightclubs and the seediest back alleys, into a terrifying world of international intrigue and dark corners of his past he'd rather never face again.
With lightning-fast pacing and a twist behind every turn, Douglas Corleone's Good as Gone is a gripping race against the clock for a young girl with her life on the line and a man who has nothing left to lose.
About the Author
DOUGLAS CORLEONE is a former New York City defense attorney and winner of the MB/MWA First Crime Novel Competition. He now lives in Kapolei, Hawaii with his wife and two children.
DOUGLAS CORLEONE is a former New York City defense attorney and winner of the MB/MWA First Crime Novel Competition for One Man's Paradise. He now lives in the Hawaiian Islands with his wife and son.
Read an Excerpt
Good as Gone
By Douglas Corleone
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2013 Douglas Corleone
All rights reserved.
I was resting in the rear of a taxi heading north out of the city on our way to Charles de Gaulle when I first heard the sirens. I opened my eyes and watched the red needle on the speedometer drop steadily as the driver turned the wheel to the right. In the rearview I glimpsed a half-dozen white Peugeots topped with flashing light bars bearing down on us. As we pulled to the shoulder, two of the cruisers skidded to a halt diagonally just in front of us, two boxed us in on the side, and the remaining vehicles screamed to a stop at our tail. I instinctively inventoried myself though I knew I wasn't carrying any contraband — nothing at all that would link me to the missing boy in Bordeaux.
The driver casually rolled down his window. One of the officers poked his head in, asked the driver in French where we were going.
"L'aéroport," the driver said.
The officer nodded, glanced at me, and switched to English, speaking to the driver as though I weren't there.
"I require your passenger to step out of the vehicle," he said. "Slowly, always showing me his hands."
Two younger officers stood outside the window to my right, hands on their sidearms. In the rearview I noticed several other officers taking cover behind their open car doors, their weapons already drawn.
With a sigh I slid over to the driver's side and gently opened the door. With my hands held out before me I stepped onto the road.
"Monsieur Fisk," the officer said as he sized me up. The rank insignia on his uniform jacket indicated he was a lieutenant, formerly known as an inspector. "I would like for you to accompany us back to Paris."
Cautiously, I lowered my hands.
"Sorry, Lieutenant. I have a plane to catch."
"You may return with us voluntarily or involuntarily," he said, "it makes no difference to me."
"Am I under arrest?"
The lieutenant made a show of gazing over my left shoulder at his officers with their drawn SIG SP 2022s.
"Does it appear to you that you are free to leave?"
I didn't give him the satisfaction of looking behind me. Instead I pictured the route back to National Police Headquarters. If memory served, we'd be heading to Ile de la Cité, which meant passing through several areas of heavy traffic. Assuming we wouldn't be blaring sirens all the way, we should be moving slowly enough to facilitate an escape. Perhaps on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré near the Palais de l'Elysée, a short distance from the American embassy, and thus, safety.
"All right, then," I said. "Let's get on with it."
The lieutenant, whose nameplate read DAVIGNON, escorted me to the last cruiser, patted me down, and opened the rear door. He didn't cuff me, didn't push me roughly into the car while pretending to protect my skull. He just motioned to the inside and permitted me to seat myself. Strange, I thought. But then, I'd never been arrested in Paris. Tokyo, yes. Beijing, sure. Moscow, Oslo, Budapest. Mexico City, more than once. But never Paris. Until now.
"What about my luggage?" I said.
Davignon smirked and slammed the door.
Maybe the French police weren't so cordial after all.
No worries. Lieutenant Davignon had left me my hands, which were more than I needed. I'd planned to make do with only my feet. At the first congested intersection, I'd summon this morning's croissants and espresso and decorate their backseat. All I needed from them was to open my door; the rest would be up to me.
Davignon, who looked to be in his midforties, sat up front in the passenger seat. The moment we pulled off the shoulder, he turned forty-five degrees and began talking at me.
"Simon Fisk," he said in heavily accented English, "thirty-nine years old. Born: London, England, to Alden and Tatum Fisk. One sibling: a slightly older sister named Tuesday, who was actually born six minutes after midnight on a Wednesday morning. When you were five, your father, who possessed dual U.K. and U.S. citizenship, left London for Providence, Rhode Island, taking you with him and leaving your mother and sister behind. To my knowledge, you have not seen either of them since."
I set my jaw and glared at him through the wire.
"If you're attempting to get a rise out of me, Lieutenant, I suggest we stop off at the nearest pharmacy and pick up a bottle of Cialis. Otherwise, you're wasting your time."
Davignon ignored me. "At seventeen you left home to attend American University in Washington D.C., where you majored in Justice and minored in Law and Society. While at university, you met Tasha Lynn Dunne of Richmond, Virginia, and soon fell head over heels in love, as the Americans say. Both of you graduated American with honors and married a year later in a sizable ceremony in Norfolk. Your father, Alden, wasn't invited and didn't attend. From there you moved back to the District of Columbia, where you began serious study and conditioning to become a United States Marshal. You submitted a flawless application, excelled in interviews, and were invited into Basic Training at FLETC in Glynco, Georgia. After seventeen and a half weeks of rigorous training, you were assigned to fugitive investigations in the D.C. field office, an assignment you yourself requested."
I stared out the window at the unfamiliar landscape blowing by. Wherever we were making for, it wasn't National Police Headquarters.
"After four months on the job," Davignon continued, "you announced to your immediate supervisor that your wife, Tasha, was pregnant. Another six months after that, your daughter, Hailey, was born."
"Enough," I finally snapped, angry at the direction in which both the conversation and the vehicle were heading. "Where are you taking me?"
Davignon finally turned fully in his seat to face me. It was only then that I noticed just how heavy and tired his eyes looked, how his five o'clock shadow reflected an additional twelve hours or so.
"To a very private place," he said. "Where you and I can have a long talk. And possibly come to some sort of an arrangement."CHAPTER 2
Signs indicated that we were approximately forty kilometers north of Paris when we parked behind a quaint two-story cottage set off from its neighbors in a quiet, rural village called Saint-Maur-des-Fossés. Only one other cruiser had followed us into the village and it was now nowhere in sight. Thoughts of escape morphed into curiosity. Clearly, this wasn't an arrest, wasn't a hit. For the first time I wondered if this had anything at all to do with the boy in Bordeaux.
Davignon opened my door and I stepped out under the tired gray sky and headed for the dull peach-colored house. As I flattened the tall blades of grass underfoot, Davignon uttered some instructions to his partner in French. Glancing back, it appeared that he had told him to wait with the car.
The interior of the cottage was brighter than I had expected. Natural light poured in through large, uncovered windows, illuminating a well-appointed living room with a sofa, love seat, and several straight-back cushioned chairs that looked as though they belonged in a seventeenth-century castle. Davignon motioned for me to take a seat in the chair positioned kitty-corner to a tall, well-used fireplace. I sat, folded my arms, and crossed my right leg over my left.
"Something to drink?" Davignon said. What little hair remaining on the sides and back of his head was shaved down, nearly to the skin. He possessed a bulk that came free with age, and a casualness that conveyed confidence and authority. I could tell that he liked being in charge, that he'd do just about anything to maintain control of a situation.
"I'd rather we get to it, Lieutenant."
Davignon stepped out of the living room and returned a moment later with a thin manila folder. He dropped it in my lap and remained standing next to the sofa across from me. He didn't remove his jacket.
Inside the folder were several photographs of a female child, age five or six, with straight auburn hair that fell to her shoulders. Wide emerald-green eyes highlighted a perfectly symmetrical face and stole attention from her tiny smile, which revealed two rows of neatly aligned teeth. The image reminded me immediately of Hailey, though this little girl looked nothing like my daughter. It wasn't the shade of her hair or shape of her face, wasn't her flawless complexion or even the color of her eyes, but rather the sparkle of light afloat in each pupil — that distinctive sign of life — that made me flash on the past, on days spent sailing on Chesapeake Bay, on nights when Tasha and I watched little Hailey dance through the sprinklers from our lounge chairs on the back porch.
"Her name is Lindsay Sorkin," Davignon said, "six years old. Born: Santa Clara, California, to Vincent and Lori Sorkin. No siblings; however, Lori Sorkin is presently fifteen weeks pregnant." He cleared his throat. "The night before last, Lindsay Sorkin went missing from the family's room at Hotel d'Étonner in Champs-Elysées. The family was in Paris on holiday and claim to know no one else in France. They are, to put it mildly, devastated." He paused. "And they are desperate, Monsieur Fisk."
I closed the folder and set it on my lap, sighing deeply, truly regretting what I had to say.
"Since you know my history so well, Lieutenant, I'm assuming you also know what I do for a living."
"I do. You retrieve missing children."
"No," I said. "I retrieve children abducted by estranged parents who flee to countries that don't recognize U.S. custody decisions."
"Countries like France."
"The point is, Lieutenant, that I don't deal with 'stranger abductions,' only parental abductions — cases in which the kidnapper is known and related to the victim."
Davignon put his head down and clasped his hands behind his back.
"Given what you have been through as a husband and father, that is understandable."
My body tensed. In that moment I could have snapped Davignon's neck. Was he really using the abduction of my six-year-old daughter and the subsequent suicide of my wife to play on my emotions? Did he really think that would work? Or was he hoping I'd attack him, giving him the leverage he needed? I drew a deep breath, trying to think only of the Sorkins. Still, I had no intention of playing into his hands, regardless of how noble the cause.
"But the past is past, Simon," he said, "and at present there is a terrified young American couple who require your services in Paris."
I stood, tossed the folder onto the chair I'd just vacated.
"Fortunately," I said, "you have the resources of the National Police at your disposal. Roughly, what, a hundred and fifty thousand agents?"
Davignon nodded. "Roughly," he said. "But as I am sure your service with the United States Marshals has taught you, sometimes organization and cooperation within an agency of that size can prove difficult. Too many chefs, as they say, spoil the soup. And in these cases, time is of the essence. Each hour that passes makes it that much more unlikely that we will ever find Lindsay Sorkin alive."
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," I said, moving past him, trying to disguise my emotions. "But as I said when you pulled over my taxi, I have a plane to catch. If your driver will take me to Charles de Gaulle, I still have a chance of making my flight."
I stopped, stared at the door, my pulse racing.
"Or you can spend the next several months in a French prison awaiting trial. As you may have read in Newsweek, our former president Nicolas Sarkozy left office with our prisons operating at a hundred and twenty-six percent capacity, far higher than the European average. The prisons are overcrowded, and frankly an embarrassment. But it's not my job to comment, only to enforce the law."
I turned back to see that Davignon's gun was drawn, aimed at the dead center of my chest.
"I am afraid, Simon, that without your cooperation, I would have to place you under arrest for the kidnapping of Jason Blanc from his mother in Bordeaux."
I stared at him, ignoring the weapon as best I could.
"And here I thought that you admired what I do, Lieutenant."
My statement was met with a mirthless smile.
"I do, Simon. It is why you are here and not at headquarters being booked. It is why I am offering you this opportunity."
Coincidentally, most of my referrals came from U.S. government officials who thought I could do more for the victimized parent than any government agency could. The father of Jason Blanc, for instance, was referred to me by a case officer at the U.S. Department of State. The case officer had been assigned the unfortunate task of informing Peter Blanc that his Massachusetts child-custody order could not be automatically enforced in France. Once he learned that he'd have to file for custody again in the French courts, Peter Blanc immediately began fearing for his son's life. Peter had won custody only after Jason's mother, Fanny, smacked the nine-year-old boy's left hand with a hammer, sending him to the emergency room at Mass General with three shattered fingers and a mouthful of lies. Peter's caseworker at the State Department sympathized — her sister had been in a similar situation four years earlier and I'd helped. So, within twelve hours of opening the case, Jason's father received an anonymous e-mail with my phone number. Yesterday, after taking Peter's frantic call at five in the morning, I had dropped what I was doing, verified the information he gave me with his family lawyer in Boston, and been on a Delta flight to Charles de Gaulle three hours later.
Needless to say, all my referrals were very hush-hush, but none had been delivered under threat of arrest, none with a handgun pointed at my chest.
"You say the Sorkins are desperate, Lieutenant, yet you're the one leveling a semiautomatic pistol at my heart. Smacks a bit of desperation on your part, I'd say."
"You no doubt followed the disappearance of little Madeleine McCann, the three-year-old British girl who went missing in the resort area of Praia da Luz in the Algarve region of Portugal. The girl was never found. To this day, the Portuguese police are swallowing criticism from international media outlets accusing them of being slow and inept. Meanwhile, Portugal's own media have attacked the police for their massive effort, contending no other missing child in the history of the country ever received such attention. You see, Simon, in the case of a missing child, the police cannot win, nor can the country in which the child went missing, particularly when it is the child of foreign nationals from the U.K. or the U.S."
Davignon lowered his weapon so that it pointed at the floor, but continued to hold it in both hands, elbows slightly bent.
He said, "France and the National Police are in no condition to endure an international media circus that will not aid one iota in returning Lindsay Sorkin to her parents. The Sorkins have agreed to hold off speaking to the media, because I promised to deliver you. I have only until noon today. So yes, Simon, I am desperate to find that little girl. To save an innocent life, and to spare my department and my country from a deluge of unwanted attention."
I considered Davignon's plea. Frankly, I could not have cared less about the National Police or their image. Even the country itself, though welcoming, wasn't high on my list of priorities.
However, I had the grave feeling that if I didn't at least entertain Davignon's offer, he wouldn't let me leave France. At least not without a fight. Of course, my own well-being didn't rank much higher than French national pride; it hadn't for some time.
On the other hand, there was Lindsay Sorkin. This little girl — her image would remain burned into my mind at least until this crisis was over. As painful as it might be for me, I owed it to Lindsay to hear her parents out.
"I'll give you twenty-four hours of my time," I said. "If I have no leads by the close of that window, I'm returning home. Because if that's the case, my presence will make no difference. It'll mean the girl is gone."
Davignon hesitated, but finally he nodded.
"Fair enough." He holstered his weapon and removed the walkie-talkie from his belt. "Bring in the Sorkins," he said into it.
He held the walkie to his ear and listened before speaking again.
"Oui, Bertrand," he said. "Both of them. Maintenant, s'il vous plait."CHAPTER 3
Vince Sorkin appeared to be in his midthirties, the wear of the previous twenty-four hours already showing on his face in the form of a vacant gaze I knew too well. The same dead eyes often stared back at me from the mirror, causing me to question whether I was still among the living. Both of us continued breathing, both of our hearts continued beating, but both of our little girls were missing and it wouldn't matter how much time passed. Until and unless his daughter was found alive, Vince Sorkin's eyes would never burn with life again. Just like mine.
We'd moved into the dining room, with the Sorkins seated across a thick marble table from me and Lieutenant Davignon.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Mr. Fisk," Vince Sorkin said.
"You're welcome," I replied, though I thought thanks were hardly in order. "Now, first things first. Give me a complete description of Lindsay. Height, weight, birthmarks, scars, the works."
Vince said, "She's about three feet four inches tall. Approximately forty-two pounds. She has a large birthmark on her big left toe, and a small scar on her right knee from when she took a bad spill off the couch and onto our glass coffee table as a toddler."
Excerpted from Good as Gone by Douglas Corleone. Copyright © 2013 Douglas Corleone. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Everyone makes a “personal”rule, that they do NOT stray from following. Former U.S. Marshall Simon Fisk is no different. He now tries to retrieve children “kidnapped” by a parent and taken out of the United States. His one rule, made after a devastating loss in his past is “Do not take on stranger abduction cases.” Period. When he is detained by the French police who threaten him with incarceration if he does not used his expertise to find the missing six-year-old daughter of a very wealthy and powerful American family from their hotel room in Paris. Left with no choice, but filled with the haunting memories of his past, Simon sets out a journey filled with death and deceit, across the European continent and its underbelly of child related crime. The clock is ticking and the trail is hidden beneath layers of petty crooks, dirty attorneys and powerful mob lords. Calling on past connections, finding new allies and dodging death at every turn, Simon is now determined to at least bring the closure to the grieving family that he was denied. Will Simon find young Lindsay before it’s too late? Is there more to the kidnapping than meets the eye? Will Simon find at least a partial closure to events in his past? Good As Gone by Douglas Corleone is a twisted maze of action, that does not quit! Not only is each scene graphic and detailed, but each character fits my mental image of the role they play. The bottom of the heap thug is brutish, the small time drug runners are creeps with over-inflated visions of grandeur. The grieving mother, facing one of the most difficult nightmares of a parent’s life will tear you apart. But it was being inside Simon’s mind that really struck a connection with me. His thoughts run rapid-fire throughout as he digested each moment and made decisions on the fly! If you like action, mystery and a chaotic thrill ride with a final 360 spin at the end, you will love Good As Gone!! I received this ARC edition from NetGalley and St. Martin's Press Minotaur Books in exchange for my honest review.
3.75 stars: drama, mystery and suspense: GOOD AS GONE is the first storyline in Douglas Corleone’s new murder, mystery, thriller, contemporary suspense series aptly named Simon Fisk. Simon Fisk is our ‘reluctant’ hero; a former US Marshall now working as an independent contractor who searches for missing children kidnapped by estranged parents or vengeful family. But Simon also has experience when it comes to missing children, and it will be his most recent assignment that forces Simon to look deep into the eyes of every child and young teen who crosses his path. The storyline focuses on Simon’s hunt for six year old Lindsay Sorkin-who has disappeared during a family vacation in Paris. Simon is called into investigate the child’s disappearance and the search will take him through the gritty and murderous underbelly of post-communist Russia, Ukraine and Romania and up close and personal with the potential for treason against the US of A. The storyline reads similar to a Bourne adventure as our hero encounters mobsters, murderers, thieves, drug dealers and corrupted law enforcement and government officials. Yet throughout the story, Simon Fisk has the uncanny ability to find the right people at the right time while stirring up a bee’s nest of murderous and vengeful hit men. He is a man on the hunt and a man who is hunted. The storyline is fast paced as the reader is taken on a whirlwind tour of the ‘not so glamorous’ side of the former Eastern Bloc and communist countries. At this point I had quite a number of questions with regards to one man’s ability to get in and out of these heavily guarded countries without so much as presenting a pass port or id, but on many occasions his whereabouts and entry points were known to those in charge. Although this is a fictional storyline, the believability of a good portion of the hero’s abilities remain questionable but everyone loves a great hero. The writing is simple. There is more narration than dialogue as the storyline is told in first person POV from Simon Fisk’s perspective and much of the detail and investigations are wrapped up via Simon’s recounting of the events. The main characters are likeable. Simon is a man truly possessed by a past mired in the guilt of another missing child and it is with this guilt that he is pushed into uncovering those responsible for the missing and exploited children. A small romance is building between Simon and Ana, a Polish lawyer whom Simon meets while investigating the missing child. But this is not a romantic storyline and their one on one time in the bedroom is glossed over. The world building includes mention of many of the most famous and infamous missing and exploited children from recent headlines and the news; in this it gives the storyline a more plausible connection in reality but saying that, there is still plenty to question about the hero’s overall ability to find and locate one missing child among millions when the authorities themselves are lost to the investigations-but again, this is a story of fiction, mystery and suspense. At times we have to believe the unbelievable. Overall, GOOD AS GONE is an interesting storyline; an adventure of one man’s hunt for a missing child among millions and the guilt that drives him forward with every child that is never found. Douglas Corleone has introduced the building blocks to a new series that is sure to please the mystery and suspense lover in everyone.
Let's hop all over Europe getting into and out of deadly scrapes! It's a thriller, you see, exciting and thoroughly implausible.
Review originally posted at Bettering Me Up. I think that three stars is being a bit generous. It's more like a 2.75: better than okay, but not good enough to say that I liked it. The story was compelling and I wanted to keep reading, but I was constantly rolling my eyes at the melodrama and non-stop action. Seriously. Simon starts off all manly and turns into an emo teenager. He kept talking about how he hated violence, but he was constantly getting into fights with other characters. I have a hard time believing that all it takes is one clue or roughed-up bad guy to know the exact location where Big Bad Guy is headed. I like action in my mysteries, but this was over-the-top. This was a quick read, but would have been better if it were fleshed out more with another 100 or so pages. I don't think I'll be reading anything else by this author. I received a copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for my honest review.